Sublimation
by drewbug
Summary: Tony's dreaming of Carol again.


**Sublimation**

**by Nicole Clevenger (December 2005)**

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Note: Written for Yuletide 2005 at LiveJournal.

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Tony's dreaming of Carol again.

He's in her apartment this time, a place he usually thinks of as airy and filled with light. But the rooms are dark now. Swirling with shadows. Their deep black settles like a chill on his skin.

He takes a step down the hallway. The wood floorboard creaks beneath his shoe. Another, same result. He wonders that Carol hasn't appeared to investigate this invasion into her home. As he slides through a pool of moonlight, he half-expects her to jump out and brain him with a lamp. Or possibly a decently heavy telephone.

He trails his fingertips along the wall as he moves, a sensory memorization of an uncertain route. Where is it that he intends to find her? The kitchen? If she were up, she would've surely confronted him by now. Her bedroom? She'll hardly appreciate that. If he shows up unannounced in there, she just might brain him anyway.

Perhaps she's not even at home? But no - the blind certainty of dream logic assures him that she is indeed close at hand. Just as he knows that the smell of gardenias whispering through the space can be blamed entirely on her latest beau. James Something-Or-Other. Tall, professional, eminently understanding. Even in this dream, Tony's subconscious can't be bothered to remember his name.

A rustling behind him stops him short, spins him around. A shadow with a distinctly catlike shape detaches itself from the rest and bolts across the room. He stays where is. Takes a moment to practice breathing again.

He wonders if he'll even be able to make himself heard, should he try and call for her.

Because there's something else here, too. A scent almost masked by the flowers, a murmuring muffled by the noise of the floor. A darkness of spirit rather than sight. It's looking for them. Looking for her. And he knows without a doubt that it means to do her harm.

He turns back down the long hallway, determined to find her now. The shadows reach for him as he brushes past, ethereal hands grasping at clothes and skin. The murmuring grows louder, separating itself into many voices that overlap and flow together to become one again. He continues down the hall, toward the source of their sound. He tries to remember if this space stretched on for so far before.

He must find her before the presence does. The imperative of stealth keeps him creeping through the darkness when all he wants to do is run.

Just when he fears he'll be wandering this corridor forever, he arrives at an open door. A room flooded with light. He blinks, and there she is. Dressed in a black cocktail dress like she's just returned from a party, fabric dipping low to expose the smooth lines of her back. She turns to him, her smile blinding after all that darkness. He draws in a breath of her clean, cool air.

"There you are," she says. Like she's been waiting for him all along.

He moves toward her without coherent thought, the steps of a man being pulled by gravity. She's here and he's here and all else has fallen away. With inches between them, her face is his whole world. The scent of her, the heat of her, it overwhelms him. Her eyes meet his like she knows every one of his secrets. A promise of understanding floating in a sea of blue.

"Carol." Everything he feels for her, everything he's kept secret. All there in the syllables of her name.

Her lips taste like wine, an unexpected detail that will surprise him later. Warm and soft, just like the body pressing against him. Every nerve ending is alive, tingling with the nearness of her. She's turned the endless circling of his thoughts into a spinning unintelligible roar. He tries to pull her even closer, unwilling to give up this moment. The only thing he knows is that he never wants to let her go.

But the moment breaks, as moments always do. When he opens his eyes, the room doesn't seem quite as bright as before. Carol doesn't seem to notice, her eyes still on him. The smile still gracing her mouth. She's waiting, he thinks. But the spreading darkness distracts him from puzzling out what it is that she's waiting for.

The voices have returned too, louder than they'd been out in the hallway. Instinct urges him to look around, to seek out the danger, but she's still looking at him and he can't seem to break away. Their sounds are closer now, scratching against one another as if right next to his ear, increasing in volume as the lights continue to dim. The hand not at her waist comes up to bat them away, an impulsive battle futile against their intangibility. He can feel the panic rising, fight-or-flight all the more powerful in the face of her inactivity. In his mind, he's screaming at her to move. Screaming at himself. But they continue to stand here, mannequins frozen in a dream tableau.

The lights go out, and the shadows fill him with their noise.

And he's calm now.

Calm because he knows what will happen. What he's known must happen all along.

His free hand moves of its own volition to the table behind him, fingers closing around smooth handles and cool metal. There's no thought now, no concerns. This ending is inescapable. It's not in his power to alter it in any way.

He can't break away from her. Her breath is warm on his face. He says her name again, this time all apology. Everything he feels for her. Everything he's kept secret.

She's still smiling when he stabs her, blood flowing hot and fast over his frozen hands.

----

Tony's eyes snap open, and he sucks in a breath like a man just punched in the gut. It takes him a full minute to figure out where he is, to separate the shades of the dream from those of this reality. Too slowly he comes to understand that he's in his flat, lying on his couch in the same clothes he'd had on when he left campus earlier this afternoon. One hand still locked in a death grip over an edge of fabric, impersonating the feel of his dream weapon lying flat against his palm.

He pushes himself into a more upright position, flexing his fingers before scrubbing both hands roughly over his face. This isn't the first dream he's had about Carol recently - he's been having them constantly over the last few days. Ever since she let slip about her new relationship. For the most part, they've been a nice change from the usual round of nightmares and distorted memory. An innocuous conversation, a captured moment from their past, some kind of twist on their normal working routine. Bits and pieces of dream-like silliness. Threads of romance. Once he awoke to the clearest sensation of her in his arms, a remembered feeling so real that he carried it with him through most of his day.

This last one, though... It doesn't take a doctorate in psychology to suss out the obvious implications of its layers. _If I can't have her, no one will _- not the most pleasant of base emotions. Or perhaps, he thinks, it's even simpler than that: a part of him fears he will one day be her undoing. The part of him that's always been more than a little uncertain on interpersonal ground.

He sighs, too tired for this self-analysis. The exhalation tickles the back of his throat, morphing itself into a cough that now sounds far worse than it did this morning. When he can finally draw a deep breath again, he rests his head against the cushions behind him and closes his eyes. Tries to come up with a decent reason why he shouldn't simply go back to sleep and deal with this all in the morning.

There's blood on his hands. Carol's blood.

It's enough to get him to open his eyes again in a hurry.

The blanket he's been using has fallen to the floor, and he stares at it for a long while before making a move to pick it up. He thinks about the papers he needs to read. He thinks about forcing himself up into a nice warm shower. His thoughts are gummy, directionless. Pulling from one neuron to another like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. It's a frustrating feeling. Or it would be, if he could find the energy to be frustrated.

The only thing he knows is that he doesn't want to dream anymore. _Brilliant, Tony. Just think of how much more you'll accomplish if you never sleep again. Bloody genius._

But he's already sliding back into sleep, aware of it only when the sound of the bell jolts him back into the world. Another sigh, another coughing fit, and he's half-way to the door before he's even conscious of moving to answer it. It occurs to him to wonder what time it is. He doesn't get quite that far before he opens the door and there she is.

"Carol," he says stupidly.

"Jesus, Tony. You look like shit."

He overlooks this information, his brain jammed in its attempt to reconcile a bombardment of false imagery with her subsistence here at his door. His fingers feel wet, slippery. He buries a shudder, trying to focus instead on working his way through the confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"At the moment, I'm freezing my arse off waiting for you to invite me in. Shall I come back later?"

"No." It comes out as more of a croak than anything resembling an actual word, but the intensity is there. If she leaves now, all he'll be left with is her ghost. "No. Come in. Of course."

"Ta." She darts inside, shifting the file to under her arm so she can blow warm air onto her cupped hands. "Did I wake you?" she asks over her fingers.

"Hmmm?" The icy breeze feels wonderful on his face, and he finds himself reluctant to close the door and follow her. He blinks, backtracking to pick up her question. "Oh. No."

"No? Then I'd say you ought to consider sacking your hairdresser." Her smile distracts him, and he flinches in surprise when an unexpected touch smoothes down a wayward spike of his hair. Her smile dissolves as quickly as it formed. "Look, maybe I should come back -"

He shakes his head, dredges up a brief shadow smile of his own. Reminds himself again to focus. "Not at all." Closing the door, he gestures the way out of the foyer. "Please." She gives him a lingering critical look before turning and heading to the stairs.

His mind absently clocks the number of steps as they ascend, a preoccupied parade of words without any real meaning. When Carol interrupts, he couldn't be pressed to say how high he's counted.

"I tried ringing your office first, but apparently you'd already gone for the day. There'll be a message waiting when you get back."

If she needs to fill the space between them with sound, he'll oblige. "Something important?"

"Something interesting. I wanted you to take a look at it, tell me what you think. Yeah?"

He nods, ignoring the headache that's beginning to take root behind his left eye. "Sure." What he thinks is that he needs to move someplace with considerably fewer stairs.

He lets her in, stands looking about the room. He's dazed for a moment by how warm it is in here. He can feel her moving behind him. Pictures her unwrapping her long black scarf to expose her neck. He sniffs, rubbing at his eyes. "Can I get you something? Tea?"

She hands him the file. "Sit. I'll put the kettle on."

He doesn't move at first. He's absorbed with the way she heads into his kitchen without hesitation. As if she belongs here.

The room tilts unpleasantly, and Tony decides that sitting might indeed be the best idea. He opens the file out on the low table in front of the couch, working at making the squiggling lines stay still long enough to be read. When it becomes plain that they don't plan to cooperate, he gives up and turns his attention to the crime scene photos instead.

When the gruesome images have been sufficiently burned into his mind, he leans back and closes his eyes, picturing the scene in three-dimensional detail. A child motionless on the grass, ribbons of skin and clothing slashed to reveal blood and muscle. Rage. Uncontrollable impulses inflicted upon helplessness. But how then to explain the rest, the almost ritualistic positioning of the body? The careful symbols surrounding the area, lovingly laid out in - What was that? Powdered chalk? Ordinary flour? He supposes it's in the notes there. It could very well be important.

He takes a few mental steps around the body, angling for a better look. But his concentration is off, the scene not quite as clear as it should be. He can hear Carol in the other room, opening cabinets as she looks for his things. It's strangely comfortable, this intrusion. Not at all what he would've expected.

_Domesticity? Wouldn't get too used to it if I were you._

If he looks only at the child's face, there's no sign of anything being amiss. Long lashes brushing flawless skin, a portrait of an angel at rest. _Go to sleep, my darling..._ His eyes wander down to the conflicting brutality, trying to make the care mesh with the anger. Is it remorse? _Now how could I do this to you when it's apparent that I care so deeply?_

Carol's smiling again. He feels the slight resistance when he forces the scissors into her body.

"Tony?"

He opens his eyes to find her standing beside the arm of the couch. For several heartbeats he can do nothing but look at her, grounding himself to the here and now. He realizes his mouth is hanging open, tries to steady his breathing. She looks concerned. He swallows. Sits up.

"I agree - this certainly is interesting," he says, aimlessly sifting through the papers on the table. He pretends that his hands aren't shaking. "When did it happen?"

She crosses to sit beside him, pushing the blanket to the corner. "We got hold of it yesterday afternoon. We've been working on it nonstop, but I wanted to hear what you had to say."

He glances over at her. "Yesterday?"

The amusement in her eyes answers his unintentional accusation. "Yes, Tony. We do like to occasionally have a crack at these ourselves before bringing you in." She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "You might've heard about it sooner if you ever were to answer your phone."

"Why do you think I spend so much time hanging around the station? Hate the bloody thing."

The smile touches her lips now, and she looks around at the endless piles of papers and books. "You sure that isn't because you can't ever seem to track it down? I wager you frequently find yourself hunting around in here, trying to locate the source of an odd mysterious ringing..."

"Only the first few times. Past that I usually just assume it's some sort of paranoid delusion."

He lets her laugh wash over him, savoring its sound. He wonders if James What's-His-Name makes her laugh like this. He hopes so.

Mostly.

He motions to the file. "This doesn't make any sense, Carol. You've got two contradictory driving impulses here. If -"

He sneezes. Just as a long sharp whistle starts up in the other room.

"Bless you," she says, getting to her feet. "Hold that thought."

He sneezes again, feeling around in his pockets for a handkerchief. The third time sends a spike of pain through his skull. He groans, hopefully too low for her to hear from the kitchen.

One of the symbols in the top photo catches his eye. It looks familiar, but he can't quite place from where. Missing handkerchief forgotten, he leans forward to examine it more closely. He doesn't look up when Carol comes back in.

She returns with a tray, setting it and a box of tissues on the table beside the folder. He starts to take one from the box with a vague thank you, only to stop and look up bewildered when his fingers come into contact with the unexpectedly cold paper.

"Found them in the fridge," she tells him, her amusement still clear.

He frowns, briefly wondering just how that came to be. Dismissing it, he turns back to study the picture as he blows his nose.

She hands him a steaming cup, sits back down. The couch cushions dip a little under her weight, a concrete sign of her presence. "So. You were saying?"

"Huh?" He takes a sip, thoroughly scalding his tongue. He sets it back on the table. He does recall her _Hold that thought_, but now he can't seem to remember what that thought was. "Oh. I have no idea." He points to the symbol. "Does that look familiar to you?"

"If it did, I'd be out there searching for the person who did this. Not sitting here breathing in your germs."

_You're unsafe to be around, Tony. "_I suppose James is never ill then, is he." It slips out under his breath before he can stop it, and he hears her cup clatter a little against its saucer. He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean that."

"Forget it."

He doesn't want to forget it, wants to drop all the rest of this and dig it all out of her. Where they go. What they do. What's the one thing above all else that ties her to him. What it is that makes this man special enough to hold her attention. He wants to know. _Needs_ to know. If only to feed a masochistic desire to hold his own flaws up against another's presumed perfection.

But they've got bigger things to consider right now. A dead child whispering from his last photos. A killer shouting silently out of the past. Into the future. Was this personal, or is there a danger he'll strike again? Tony resolves to try and keep his thoughts properly where they belong. There'll be plenty of time for the rest of it once he's alone. There always is.

"How old was the boy? Have you identified him?"

He senses she's grateful for the change of subject, difficult as it might be. "The medical examiner is putting him at about seven or eight. But we can't be certain because, no, we haven't come up with a name yet."

"No missing person reports?" He ponders this. "Does no one notice you're gone?" he asks the boy in the picture. "Maybe because there are too many others around - an orphanage, perhaps? Too many unwanted underfoot to notice one missing right away? Or is the person who did this to you the only one in a position to report your absence?"

The child doesn't answer. He runs his fingers over the face in the photo, making an effort to listen anyway. His fingertips tingle as he runs them over the glossy surface, the sensation spreading its way over his hand and up his arm. He tries to shape his thoughts into something more solid than the sticky mess they seem currently content to be.

"Where was he found, specifically? Any group homes, schools, communities nearby?"

"All this information is in the file, Tony." It sounds a bit frustrated, but not unkind. He has a flash of her standing in a room of light, waiting for him to appear. He wishes this damn dream would release him already.

He drops his head into his hands. "I'm afraid I'm not much use to you right now, Carol."

"Just as well. I need to be getting along anyway." The couch shifts again as she stands, calling all the more attention to the now-empty space beside him.

He moves one hand just enough to peer up at her out of one eye. "Date?"

He probably shouldn't have asked that, but she seems to be willing to let it slide by. "No, a party. One of those interminable dull and politely mandatory functions where we all stand around and pretend for the brass that there's no where else we want to - What?"

Another flash of that sexy black dress, wrapping him up as soon as she says the word 'party'. Her face, a finger's width from his own. An image of himself, running his tongue up the length of her bare spine.

He blinks and finds her staring at him.

"What?" he echoes.

"I'm asking you," she says.

It takes him a minute to break the eye contact. He turns away, busying himself with putting the file back together. "Nothing. Party. Dull. Mandatory. Have you considering adding a nip or two to the punchbowl?"

"Tony." She puts a hand on his shoulder, and he freezes. The hand doesn't move. Reluctantly he looks up at her. "That must be fifth time you've given me that look tonight. Like you've found yourself face to face with a killer or something." He watches one corner of her mouth twitch as she remembers who it is she's talking to. "Okay, well maybe not _you_, per se, but most people. Not fascination... Fear. Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Not particularly," he answers honestly.

When her face falls and she immediately begins gathering up her things, he feels like he's the one who's been stabbed. He sits there as she replaces her scarf, pulls on her coat. He scrambles for something to say as she scoops up the file, but his exhausted mind offers up nothing more helpful than the desperate sound of of dog claws scrabbling for purchase on a hard wood floor. An apt characterization. But useless.

"Sorry to have bothered you," she says.

"I've been dreaming about you," he tells her.

It stops her three feet from the door, her hand already lifting to reach out for it. She turns back slowly. "I beg your pardon?"

He hadn't meant to say that either, but now it fills the space between them. "Dreams. About you." He wants to make it sound casual, like he's talking about somebody else. Doesn't want to feel as if he's laying himself vulnerable at her feet. "Just these past few days. I had another one, right before you popped in. Might be why I seem a bit queer."

"What sort of dreams?"

He shrugs. "Oh... conversations. Tea. Not all that different from our waking lives, really."

"Uh-huh." He tries not to squirm under the look she's giving him. She seems about to say something, but then changes her mind. "Look, I've really got to run. We can talk about this later, yeah?"

He nods. Hopes she'll forget about it.

Carol moves to go. She's got her hand on the door when she speaks again, but this time she doesn't turn around. "It's not really working out, you know. Between James and I."

He can't see her face. But he can read in the line of her shoulders how much this admission costs her.

"I'm sorry," he says. And he is. For her sake.

"It happens," she says. A finality. He knows she won't speak of it again. Knows she won't thank him for pursuing the subject now. "Stop by tomorrow, if you're feeling up to it. Else I'll come back by here at some point. I want to get you another look at this file, yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. "Tomorrow."

One word. Encompassing hundreds of tiny possibilities.

**end.**


End file.
